


First Things First

by Auntie_Diluvian



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: 15 years post pacifist run, Adult Frisk, Age isn't just a number, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Companion Piece, Cool Teen Angst, Guilt, Guilty Pleasures, Masturbation, Non-Binary Frisk, Other, Reader Is Frisk, Sans-centric, Skeleton Ghost Penis, Skype, Undyne as (quite improbably but successfully) the Voice of Reason, Wassail-induced accidental sincerity, one man glowstick rave, skelepeen hooray, who's letting this rad teen swear all the time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:40:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6016924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auntie_Diluvian/pseuds/Auntie_Diluvian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans wakes up before his alarm for once in his life. But just for this one morning, wood it be so much to ask to spend it in peace? Maybe it's time he takes a long, hard look at his life choices.</p><p>Oh, also he masturbates.</p><p>__</p><p>Sans is stuck at Heathrow on Christmas Eve. The modern marvel of Skype allows him to beam some Christmas cheer from EV directly into his eyeholes. Just his luck.</p><p>--</p><p>Frisk wants some advice bad enough they're willing to work for it, but Undyne's nowhere near as prepared for this conversation as she thought she was. Why couldn't it have been drugs, or gambling, or acts of nighttime vigilantism? The hell is she supposed to say about a crush?<br/> <br/>==<br/>(This is sort of a prequel/companion piece to The Lost Toy Problem, so it may not entirely make sense out of context.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Things First

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Lost Toy Problem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5194532) by [Auntie_Diluvian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auntie_Diluvian/pseuds/Auntie_Diluvian). 



**PRESENT DAY**

**“Goddamnit Sans, _please-_ ff-fuck- oh- oh my fuck, shit, please Sans- nn, _fuck_!”**

Even in his dreams, you cursed like a sailor. Well, okay, _especially_ in his dreams.

He hadn't bothered to close the blinds or the curtains last night. He rarely ever did. Why would he? He loved waking up late, his bedroom or living room or wherever he’d wound up sleeping already awash in sunlight by the time he opened his eyes. Even if it took him a minute to figure out where he was, that was nothing compared to the absolute certainty of immediately knowing where he _wasn't_ first thing in the morning. He supposed you were to thank for that as well, his fifteen years of sunny mornings. Or afternoons, as the case may be. This morning, though, there was no bright midday sunlight to greet him and send him on his way to the lab. The lights were still on in the parking lot and the sky was hazy indigo. He could just make out the headlights of the early cars on the motorway.

The thing about never staying in the same place for more than a month at a time, or at least one of the things, is that one gets very good at forgetting, for instance, which side of the bed has a nightstand with a sharp corner on it, or that one’s phone is on the floor on the other side because that's where some genius decided to put the wall outlet, _Sans_. He rolled over and yanked his phone up unceremoniously by the charge cable. 

Four thirty. No wonder it was still dark outside. He'd set his alarm for five, his taxi was supposed to be at the hotel at six, and his flight was at seven thirty. Dear god, why had he booked a flight for seven fucking thirty? Ah, right. It was the only flight that would get him home in time for Toriel’s… whatever. She'd been deliberately vague, her only clue: “wear shoes”. Thanks, Tori.

He could try to get back to sleep. He still had a full half hour and then some before he actually had to be up, having scheduled himself enough time for several gratuitous usages of the snooze button. Normally, the siren call of slumber wouldn’t have even posed a choice worth thinking about, but the likelihood of him actually being able to fall asleep again after that dream was slim. It had left him overheated and the once pristine and neat bedsheets were creased and soaked with sweat. Not to mention the temporary reminder of what, as far as he could tell given the last four years, was now a permanent feeling.

With a grunt, he gingerly tucked his swollen cock up into the waistband of his shorts and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It was beyond tempting to just go ahead and deal with it, but… no. Whatever Toriel had planned, you would probably be there for it, and he couldn't afford to have “hey, I know we haven't spoken at all in months, but I have recurring sex dreams about you and I jacked off thinking about you this morning” written all over his face. Which it would be. You would just know, somehow. And he didn't need that. Hell, you were probably seeing someone, anyway. And even if you weren't, and even if you still had that tenuous attraction to him (and what were the odds of that), you hadn't made any attempts to contact him at all since Alphys’ party. God, that party. And _even then_ , if-

Nah. Nope. There was no point. Best leave well enough alone. That had been his plan ever since the first time he'd seen you in years at your college graduation dinner. It was appalling how much he had instantly wanted you. It wasn't right, for a number of reasons, but at some point in the four years of his absence, you had become… really quite something. Maybe that wasn't fair; you had always impressed him. But then suddenly, you were grown and impossibly, you had only gotten funnier and kinder and smarter and tougher -- and all anyone could talk about was how bright your future was. He was inclined to agree, which was fine. What was not fine was the way his dick -- no, worse, his soul -- stirred whenever you smiled at him, let alone spoke to him.

Bottom line, you didn't need some fucked-up skeleton somewhere in the ballpark of ten years your senior insinuating himself into your life, and that was just the way it should be. Sometimes, though, he forgot, or he let himself forget, and he thought, maybe you were flirting with him, maybe you wouldn't mind. That's when disasters like the almost kiss at Alphys’ party happened. The memory of everything that had happened at the party leading up to that point, the persistent secret regret that he had stopped you, and the ache of imagining what it might have felt like, where things might have gone from there -- were exactly the kinds of thoughts he didn't need to be entertaining if he wanted to keep his head on straight, assuming it ever had been. 

He sat up and planted his feet on the floor, yawning and rolling his neck and shoulders. Doing his level best to ignore his stiff cock, he heaved himself out of bed, shambled over to his laptop and let it boot up while he set the coffee pot.

He’d been hoping for a little more substance in his inbox to take his mind off his problem, but he only had three emails, one of which was spam. He took a few minutes to respond to the two work emails, check his bank account, make a note of his flight confirmation number -- fucking useless, he was still hard and completely at the mercy of his own uncooperative brain, which kept calling up flashes, memories from his dreams, unbidden. He got up, poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down again to find his Facebook tab flashing text at him.

 **Toriel Dreemurr:** I’m so looking forward to tomorrow! I know everyone is going to be so pleasantly surprised to see you! Are you sure you don’t need someone to pick you up from the airport? I think I might be able to convince Frisk to pick up a mystery guest!

Oh, right. It was still nighttime in Ebbott Valley. Yesterday. And the last thing he wanted to do right now was talk to Toriel about _you._ Who in his situation would? The woman had the worst timing, and he would know, he was a comedian. Well, maybe he had been, once.

 **Sans:** nope, i’m good to go. oversea you later today

 **Toriel Dreemurr:** LOL! Excellent! : -)

He closed out of the chat window and scrolled through his Facebook feed. He practically never used it, but it was a decent enough way to keep tabs on Papyrus, who messaged him on it constantly (which cut down considerably on the number of long-distance calls made). This morning though, he could use the distraction. But of course-

_**Frisk Dreemurr** was mentioned in a post.  
**MK TheTerrible** : **#tbt** to when **Frisk Dreemurr** joined roller derby holy mother of god those purple booty shorts! OW OW! Frisky Business lives on in our hearts and minds though they skate no more._

The picture was, well. As described. You were sprawled out, laughing on the floor, legs everywhere as a teammate struggled to help you up. It looked to have been taken by a professional. Wisps of hair peeked out from under your helmet, grease paint gleamed with sweat under your eyes. And, yeah. The shorts. He remembered your _short_ -lived derby career. You had joined as “a favor for a friend” about three years ago (though he suspected there was more to the story) and he’d been dragged to one of your first and only matches. He especially remembered thinking that if Mettaton wasn’t jealous to bits over your thighs, then the man had even less taste than he’d given him credit for.

He snapped his laptop shut. You were _fucking everywhere_. He slouched against the hard back of the hotel room desk chair, his skull hitting the wood rail with a thunk. Taking a deep breath, he shut his eyes, but the afterimage of spread, slightly bruised legs, the wrinkles of a too-tight shirt riding up in back, and the exposed throat of a head thrown back in embarrassed, adrenaline-fueled laughter, lingered. Those goddamn tight uniforms, what were they thinking, putting you in one of those? Were they trying to start a riot or just victimize him, personally? Maybe both. Fuck. 

At this point, he knew he had only made things worse. It was one thing to wake up from a sex dream, jerk off, and go on about his day. It was another thing entirely to wake up from a sex dream, categorically refuse to do anything about it, and spend the next ten minutes inadvertently only getting hornier until he ultimately caved from sheer desperation. There wasn't even a choice to be made anymore. Well, okay. There was the smart choice, and then there was what he was about to do. 

He groaned at the ceiling. This was stupid, stupid, stupid. It wasn't that it was an unfamiliar ritual, just that usually he had the protection of an entire ocean between you and him after the fact. But he’d see you today. God, he must be a glutton for punishment, because damn if the thought of hearing your voice again after so many months didn't excite the hell out of him. He had missed you. A year ago, you had even come close to being good friends. That was obviously over and done with, now, though. But even if you had washed your hands of him after that night and decided he wasn't worth the effort, maybe he could at least talk to you for long enough to get some kind of closure. And if not closure, then at least a few more minutes of your time.

What if you didn't _want_ closure?

Oh, he knew, he knew. Sure, you had had a crush on him at some point, ages ago, and yes, you had tried to kiss him at the party, but he knew better than to take any of that seriously. One didn't need to be a theoretical physicist to recognize that there was no reason for any of that to still matter after so much time. Even if he had once had a shot, he’d completely blown it, and… people moved on. To better things. As they should. Clearly, skeletons did not. But _what if?_

Probably the most dangerous question he could be asking himself, but it was with thoughts of what if that his shaking hand found its way down to his boxers, where the cotton fabric was pulled tight against him by his own slouchy posture. He rubbed the tip of his index finger against the weave of the fabric in a single, straight line along the underside of his dick, from head to base, involuntarily splaying his toes outward. He lifted his hips and adjusted his boxers so they weren't pulled so tight against him, then tugged the elastic band over and down until it hitched under his cock. 

As he fit his set of white knuckles around the base on a quiet exhale, he wondered what you would think of it, wondered if you had ever considered the possibility of what he had to work with. It would hardly be the first time a human had been curious. And if you were a little more than just inquisitive, that was fine, too. He wouldn’t deny you an answer (or a demonstration). In fact, he could deny you nothing, nor did he want to. Although, he thought, squeezing his fist a little tighter and slowly stroking his shaft, it wouldn’t hurt if you asked nicely. 

True, you weren't exactly the asking nicely type, but given the chance, he was sure he could convince you to. Given the chance, he wanted nothing more than to have you as helpless, as desperate as he’d ever been, and begging for him -- when you weren’t crying out his name or letting a string of breathless obscenities fall from your lips. That made it sting all the more: he was positive that if you wanted him even just a little, it would be so, so good. If he could… if he could just…

Show you.

God, he wanted so badly to show you what you did to him. When you turned one of his jokes back on him. When you caught him in a lie or avoiding his responsibilities and needled him about it. When you said anything with that filthy mouth of yours.

In his mind he replayed your words, ripped straight from his dream. How could he refuse when you said his name like that? Easy, he couldn't. A fresh sheen of sweat formed on his brow, layered over the salty grit from only moments ago.

He would give you whatever the fuck you wanted. And if you wanted his cock inside you -- he pumped harder -- or fuck, honestly any part of him -- fingertips like claws curled and scraped at the wood armrest -- then there was nothing above or below ground that could help him because he wouldn't have it in him to resist.

It would be so good.

He was writhing, the thin leather-covered cushion of the chair creaking with every shift of his pelvis, his right ulna clacking rhythmically against the arm of the chair. He slumped further back, raking his toes through the carpet and letting his jaw fall open on a grunt.

There was movement in his peripherals, stilling his hand and his body, but by no means his mind or his breath. Cautiously he turned his head to look out the window, but it was just an old couple, heading out to their car with their luggage. He waited until they had pulled out of the parking lot before he let himself relax. He was fairly sure the bed would have obscured their view, but really, he should have been more careful. He covered himself as best he could and got up to shut the vertical blinds. The room went dark. Was it better or worse if he turned a light on? He left them off, regardless. In the dark, he could almost imagine he heard your breathing, your heartbeat. Even if it was just someone down the hall pounding on a door after a late night or the wind slicing over the guardrails on the road, his mind was fixed: the world imitated you. 

He shuffled in the darkness toward his bed until the rail bumped his knees. It caught him off-guard and he fell forward into the mattress. The cold sheets reminded him of why he got out of bed in the first place, though, so instead of getting in, he sank to his knees on the floor, as if in bedside prayer.

“nailed it.”

He groaned in frustration and pressed his face into the mattress, his arms hanging limp at his sides, less limp parts of him brushing against the box spring. He took a steadying breath and freed himself from his shorts once more. He had been, if not exactly close a moment ago, then somewhere close to close, and the moments since that moment had seen his cock throbbing impatiently, throwing a tantrum for his attention. But he'd have no more distractions now. 

You weren't a difficult image to conjure in his mind. He knew you well, and he'd certainly spent enough time looking at you. The other details, he could fill in the blanks without too much difficulty. His imagination in this area was familiar ground. How many times had he imagined all the different ways he could raise the hair on your arms, all the places your body would respond to his touch with goosebumps? Countless mornings, nights, and on several occasions, for a few hot, stolen minutes during the day, he’d speculated about what noises you’d make. Whether you’d moan against him, or hold back, trying not to give him the satisfaction but for the catch and irregularity of your breath.

The lump of blankets he’d made in his sleep was pushed to the floor as his free hand skimmed across the surface of the bed, seeking something to grip on to, to press down on, to ground him. He found nothing but a bit of slack on the fitted sheet. No, it was your shirt. No, it was his shirt, but you were wearing it. But not anymore. Just skin. 

Skin was conspicuously absent from his day to day life. The first time he'd ever felt something other than just a hand, he'd been fascinated by how many different textures skin could have. What a shame, he had thought, that the softest, most interesting, most sensitive patches of skin were supposed to be hidden from view, from touch. Usually, anyway. At the moment, his image of you was perfect. Exposed, in front of him. For him.

What wouldn't he give for it to be real? He _needed_ something tangible so badly he began to thrust into his own hand, hissing through his teeth. Better, but not yet good enough. His pace was easy, complacent. Nothing at all like what he really wanted to do to you. He wanted to listen as you raised your voice just to be heard above the ruckus of the bed. He couldn’t fuck you hard enough even if it meant he _broke_ the damn thing trying. 

The hotel bed issued its own complaints as his chest rocked against it with every thrust. He was finally getting close, but he couldn’t remember the last time he'd actually dreaded coming, if ever. He'd come down from his high and realize what an idiotic thing he had just done. No thanks, he wanted to stay here forever, wrapped up in sex and you and you and sex and your soft fucking skin and your whole goddamn hot as fuck body and your voice echoing in his skull and just bury him, cover him, cover you with everything he had to spare. Just be close. Closer. _Fuck, please, anything, just to be closer, more._

He wasn't close anymore. The time for that passed even as he dreaded the reality that he knew would come after he did.

He had been hard for 21 minutes and 43 seconds. Actually, it had probably been longer than that, but that was as much of it as he had been conscious for. Not a record either way, though. He knew this because a notification for some useless app lit up his phone at the exact moment he tipped over the edge. 

“fuhh… uhh… uhh- oh, shit-”

A sudden, awful realization: the tissue box was on the desk but it might as well have been on the moon. He was unprepared and he wasn't going to get there soon enough. Couldn't take a shortcut, not in this state.

Well.

He felt the whiplash all the way in his toes. His chest jerked downward in a full-body flinch. The wind was knocked out of him as he felt the first jets hit his bones. He lacked the wherewithal to care about the fact he had just shot all over himself, or anything at all that was further removed from him than two inches from his nose or his dick. Caught up in his own gratification, ragged huffs into the mattress were all he could manage until it was finally over. He sat back on his heels.

 _Then_ he got a good look at himself.

“fuck, really?” he said, weakly chastising himself. “ _cum_ on, man.”

His breathing had yet to return to normal, and he was still halfway curled in on himself, spine hunched as he staggered into the bathroom for a washcloth to clean up the mess that clung to his spine and ribs. That finished, he took a long look in the mirror. He was sweaty and gross and in need of a shower, but he didn't look half as guilty as he felt. Silly of him to think just thinking of you would be enough to brand his sins to his face. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have an inch on his body that wasn't etched with them for all the times he'd come with your name in his teeth and the many, many worse things he'd done. Or not done. No, he'd be all right; this was precisely what he was good at. You would never have to know.

He switched off the bathroom light and made his way back to bed with considerably more composure than he'd had when he left, and crawled underneath the covers on the slightly less sweat-dampened side.

He had seven more minutes until his alarm went off, not that he planned on getting up the first time it did. 

His taxi would be at the hotel at six. 

His flight was at seven thirty.

He would see you in just over fifteen hours.

He could find his cool by then, right?

But first, twenty more minutes of sleep. Even overseas, even without knowing it, you exhausted him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really wanted to post this and Chapter 7 of TLTP at the same time, but I also wanted to release something on Valentine's Day because why the fuck not so here is the thing that I actually have finished at this point in time. Expect Chapter 7 either tomorrow or Tuesday!
> 
> foxsgloves made [this](http://auntie-diluvian.tumblr.com/post/139338262577/its-symbolic-do-ysee-the-frayed-edge-represents) for me


	2. AD, it's not even September yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last night I decided I wasn't getting anywhere fast with Awkward Dinner with Ma by banging my head on the keyboard or trying to bribe my boyfriend into writing it for me so I ended up churning out a dumb short Christmassy fluff thing that takes place the Christmas just before Everything Went to Shit™ in the grand scheme of the TLTP timeline
> 
> have a look maybe

**Ebbott Valley, California/London, England - December 24, 2014**

 

Maybe it should have mattered more to him that he’d actually been able to book a flight out at all. Maybe he should have been more grateful for that, but he was 3 hours into a 7-hour layover and playing Angry Birds was just starting to make him… well, angry. One of the stools at the charging counter had finally opened up, though, so he heaved himself and his backpack and his greasy-bottomed bag of cold Burger King up to the counter and dug out his laptop again.

 

This would have been perfect if he had somewhere to put his feet up. And take his shoes off. And if the intercom would stop going off every five minutes. And if he could maybe take a nap.

 

It was less than ideal.

 

His computer finished booting up and almost immediately started chirping and dinging at him before he could even get any of its applications open.

 

“slow down, babe, you’re not as spry as ya used to be.”

 

Probably all the porn.

 

 _Fwip, fwip, fwip_.

 

Skype was flashing windows at him faster than he could read them.

 

He opened it.

 

 **frisk.dreemur:** SANS!!!! WTF DUDE WHY ARE YOU IN MERRY OLD ENGLAND

 

WHEN YOU COULD BE PARTYING

 

WITH US

 

mom says hi

 

 **sans.skeleton:** how much egg nog have you had

 

 **frisk.dreemur:** none, tyvm. I’m trying to figure out if i’m lactose intolerant

 

This is AAAALLL WASSAIL, motherfucker!!!!

 

Asgore says hi… why did he squeeze my shoulder

 

 **sans.skeleton:** squeeze something back

 

 **frisk.dreemur:** -____- 

Oh hang on alphys says she has a message for you

And i’m supposed to type out everything she says word for word

Don’t say word for word

**sans.skeleton:** heh

**frisk.dreemur:** don’t

ugh

fine

Merry Christmas Sans! Hopefully there will be some fruitcake left for when you get back it’s especially date-y this year

speaking of dates

**frisk.dreemur is typing….**

**frisk.dreemur:** hello i’m alphys and i loooooove tentaAsf ]]WSDGLH\’;;;

Nevermind that’s her whole message just the merry christmas and the bit about the fruitcake

**sans.skeleton:** tentacool message

**frisk.dreemur:** nice, she’s screaming

Well, she was already screaming

It’s fine

**sans.skeleton:** well i’date for her to be upset

hey

you there

**sans.skeleton is typing….**

**sans.skeleton is typing….**

**sans.skeleton is typing….**

**frisk.dreemur:** Whoops, sorry! You got a second?

**sans.skeleton:** only abt 12720 why

**frisk.dreemur:** you stop that math shit right now

Heh

Um I’ve maybe sort of gathered everyone into the living room and if you don’t agree to do a video call it’ll be fine they’ll all just be really sad and you’ll ruin the christmas party

**sans.skeleton:** oh

**frisk.dreemur:** JUST KIDDING!!!! HAHA!!!!! THAT’S NOT A THING I’VE DONE

**sans.skeleton:** i’ll do it

**frisk.dreemur:** oh thank god thank you so much i really should’ve asked you before i set it up and i got distracted and

**sans.skeleton:** it’s fine

**frisk.dreemur:** thaaaaank you just sit tight i’ll get it all set up

**  
  
**

He sat up a little straighter and wiped his palms on his pants, surreptitiously tried to unstick the armpits of his sweater. He sat very tight, indeed.

When he opened the call, he had to yank off his headphones and turn his volume down to a less skull-shattering level before he could put them back on and catch the tail end of the greeting shout.

Papyrus gasped. “MY BROTHER’S FACE ON A TINY SCREEN! I LOVE TECHNOLOGY! NOTHING FUNNY, STRICTLY PLATONIC, BUT I LOVE TECHNOLOGY!”

“I see you’ve managed to avoid your rightful responsibilities in our quartet again, this year,” groused Undyne.

“trombones don’t go great with piano and tambourine. it’s better this way. i still think you’re makin’ a mistake with the otamatone, but i guess the lead’s girl always gets a part, eh, al?”

“I- I resemble that remark! And my G-Greensleeves sounds better than last year!” said Alphys, leaning more into Undyne’s side.

“you’ll hafta excuse me if that doesn’t inspire a whole lot of confidence.”

Toriel peeped her head into the room from the kitchen. “If you three are done bickering, I’d like to remind you that it’s Christmas and also that my tambourine is the glue that holds the group together, if you’d just give it a chance, Sans.”

“BROTHER! WHAT TIME DO YOU EXPECT TO ARRIVE?”

“i dunno, bro, it’ll probably be really late. or uh, early i guess.”

“AS LONG AS YOU MAKE IT HERE BEFORE… SANTA…”

He punctuated his invocation of the jolly spirit with waggling eyebrows.

“Pap, what’s with the…” Frisk gestured.

“SANTA,” he repeated.

Gradually everyone returned to doing whatever they’d been occupied with before, getting second or third rolls or slices of pie, shout-singing half-remembered Gyftmas carols at each other around the piano, or playing a rather one-sided game of Monopoly.

Frisk took refuge in the office, where it was somewhat quieter, to finish their conversation.

“So how long are you gonna be in town for, this time?” they asked. “Well, once you get here. Assuming that can happen at some point.”

“a month.”

“A month! Really?” they squeaked before composing themself. “Damn, how’d you swing that?”

“i didn’t have to swing anything at all. just my sweet ass as i walked away from the worst grant proposal i’ve ever heard.”

They snorted. “Dickhole.”

“you’ve got that backwards, i’m the whole dick.”

“I’m… you’re in public, you should be ashamed.”

“yeah, look at me, i’m blushing.”

Was… he??? Shit, maybe.

“So you’ll be here for Alphys’s party, then?”

“...is it in less than a month?” 

They nodded. “Think so.”

“then maybe.”

“I don’t know why I’m even asking, Undyne’s been up my ass about it like I have any clue what you’re doing. Not sure why she decided to make that a  _ me _ thing rather than a  _ you _ thing, but whatever.”

They sipped on their wassail.

“Well, um, I think I’d better go help Asgore in the kitchen, it sounds like he lost at Monopoly.”

“ok.”

“Um, I know… I know everyone’s looking forward to seeing you when you get here, so… because… we’ve all missed you a lot? So don’t piss off customs or anything like that, ok? And if your plane crashes, don’t do that. Don’t be in a crashing plane.”

“heh, ok.”

“Good, um, good. Merry Christmas, Sans.”

They pressed two fingers to their lips and brought them forward to the camera until their fingers blocked the screen. The call ended on a blurry freeze frame of them rising out of their chair, running a hand through their hair.

He shut his own laptop and lay his head on it with a quiet groan.


	3. The Moral of the Story is Don't Let Undyne Try To Guess Who You Have a Crush On

**Ebbott Valley, California - December 2007**

Any second, now, you were going to cough up blood. 

Undyne had been pushing you for nearly a quarter of an hour, now, and wouldn't she be sorry when you wound up on your deathbed.

You almost willed it to happen out of spite, but then again, you wouldn't get any of those sweet, sweet nuggets of Undyne-ly advice that you had come for.

Wouldn't have much use for her advice anyway, if you were really dying.

So, since you planned on living, and ideally enjoying a scalding hot shower and a nap on the couch with the TV on after this, you kept running, even though you were miserable, and in pain, and  _ this pace constituted a jog for her? _

Why was your favorite (or just as often, second-favorite, depending on who was asking and what you wanted) aunt-figure/mentor/friend so difficult to get alone for a heart-to-heart?

Probably because she didn't really  _ do _ heart-to-hearts unless it was strictly necessary (but when she  _ did _ , she made sure you knew she was the  _ best  _ at them), and as such, you could tell she was suspicious of your motives when you had asked if you could come along on her morning jog when there was absolutely zero precedent of you ever having desired to do so, and on a Saturday, no less.

Alphys had been easier to corner, but less helpful than you had hoped. She wouldn't decisively tell you much of anything, preferring vague generalizations and platitudes, and had simply wrung her hands together over and over and grown more concerned in appearance while she listened to you vent. You were grateful for that, you had needed to vent, but now you needed someone to lay it out for you straight. Someone who wouldn't pull punches. Someone who was unbiased, or at least far enough removed from the situation that their judgment could be trusted. Someone who had your best interests at heart.

You needed Undyne, and you would run through hell to get a chance to talk to her about this. Or at the very least, you would brave shuffling pathetically after her in 38-degree dry chill that felt like steel wool on your esophagus, while she ran ahead of you.

Finally,  _ finally _ , she slowed to a halt by a park bench, jogging in place and cheering you on as you caught up.

“I don’t normally take a breather here, but uh, I mean, no offense but you look real bad, so why don't we walk it off for a bit, huh?”

Screw  _ walking it off _ , you needed to lie down. And not move ever again.

You collapsed on the park bench and slouched, your eyes rolling in your head as you wheezed.

“...Or we could, uh, yeah. Do that.”

She sat down beside you.

“Put… put your head between your legs. Humans do that, right? In movies?”

You coughed pitifully as she rubbed soothing circles between your shoulderblades.

“Thaaat’s it, there we go. You're doing great!”

“No’m not,” you groaned.

“YEAH! YOU'RE BREATHING, AREN’T YOU? YOU'RE THE BEST BREATHER ON THAT SIDE OF THE BENCH!”

You laughed in spite of yourself.

“Thanks, Undyne. Don't need to be psyched up just for breathing, though.”

“Hey, you know what? Sometimes, we all do.”

You sat up, slowly, focusing on two dogs playing frisbee with each other in the clearing.

“That was unexpectedly sincere for you, especially for first thing on a Saturday morning,” you remarked, a bit impressed.

“Yeah, well... Al told me you’d probably try to talk to me about something, and that I should keep a cool head and take it seriously, so I figured I should set the tone ahead of time.”

“Ah, shit, I should’ve guessed she’d warn you.”

“Uh,  _ yeah _ ? Who do you think you’re dealing with? We don’t keep secrets from each other! Well, not indefinitely. She wouldn’t tell me what this was about and- I gotta be real honest, I’m terrified you’re about to tell me you robbed a convenience store for drug money. Or that you beat my pie-eating contest record. Or that you made telepathic contact with extraterrestrial life forms and the government wants to study your brain and this is goodbye.”

She bounced her leg in the dirt, arms crossed over her belly, her nervous, toothy grin begging you to end her discomfort.

You weren’t sure the topic you had in mind would actually be any less uncomfortable for her, when it came down to it.

“No, I’m uh, sorry to disappoint, but it’s not quite that interesting. It’s… it’s just a dumb crush. Like, a  _ really _ dumb crush.”

The muscles in her face twitched and you could read her like a brochure as she warred internally between relief and categorical helplessness.

“You’ve… had those… before, right?”

“Yes.”

“WHOO!” she clapped. “Okay, that’s step one, probably right? The first step in… doing whatever it is you wanna do about this crush… is admitting you have one. We’re making progress already! God, I’m good at this.”

“I think that’s the first step of overcoming addiction, but… sure, yeah.”

“Having a crush… is not unlike… having an addiction,” she said sagely with her hands now neatly folded in her lap.

You nodded with her encouragingly. You  _ needed _ her right now, even if she was going to keep sounding like the Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul book someone had bought for you, once.

“So, I guess then step two would be… Wait, what did Alphys say, that you felt like you had to bring this up with me, too? This is totally her kind of thing, she  _ loves _ getting vicariously involved in other people’s love lives…”

Shit.

“I think I might’ve made her uncomfortable…”

“Oh.” She hunched forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. She let a group of kids on scooters pass by on the sidewalk before she spoke again. “So just how dumb of a crush are we talking, here?”

The worst part. Always the worst part. Saying his name out loud.

“It’s…” _ just say it, come on, _ “it’s um…”  _ chickenshit. _ “It’s been about two years, I think? Since I first realized… I mean, like I said, I’ve had crushes before. Literally since I found out the meaning of the word, I’ve been having crushes, right? I have a crush on… on the  _ concept  _ of crushes.”

“Uhh… Okay? Is that what you… wanted to tell me? That you’re a huge nerd for romance? Because I have to say, I think we all kind of called that one a long time ago.”

You laughed, throwing your head back.

“No, that’s not what I wanted to say. I’m trying to say that this is different… I haven’t ever crushed on anyone for _ two years _ , before. In fact, I’m not even sure I should be calling it a crush, since they’re, by definition, kinda fleeting, you know? This is, like…  _ worse _ . I think this is, like…  _ feelings. _ ”

Undyne smiled, seemingly in spite of herself.

“You kinda remind me of me, figuring all my stuff out for the first time. So, who’s the lucky recipient of these feelings?”

“W-well… you know him.”

“I do?”

“Mhmm.” You swallowed. “In fact, I think pretty much…  _ everybody _ knows him.”

“Oh! Guess who, huh? Hmm, okay, I’ll play.. Let’s see….  _ everybody knows him _ … is it like… a celebrity? Is it- BAHAHAHA OH my god it’s not Mettaton, is it? Is that how you made Alphys uncomfortable? Oh my god, I’m gonna- that’s too funny, I’m so sorry I’m laughing at your teen angst, here, but not NEARLY enough-”

“- _ Undyne, it’s NOT Mettaton _ ,” you hissed.

She bit her knuckle, still occasionally convulsing from a barely held back giggle. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She sighed, leaning back, lost in thought once more.

“Everybody knows him… Alphys was uncomfortable…  _ not _ Mettaton…”

She chewed on it for a long moment, during which you were still trying to work up the nerve to stop the stupid game and just say his damn name, already, move on to the next part of the conversation.

“Oh… oh, god. I.” She buried her hands in her face and let out an anguished growl.

“No. No way. You can't- you know he’s like, a _ thousand  _ years older than you. Frisk, I’m sorry, if that’s the case, I think… I think you need more help than I can give you, that’s… it’s very,  _ very  _ wrong, ok?”

Well. You knew this was coming. Still, you thought that was perhaps a bit of an overstatement.

“I mean, okay, he’s not a  _ thousand years older than me _ , that’s… I mean that was a gross exaggeration. I mean eleven is still kind of a lot, but, I really didn’t think it was as bad as  _ that… _ ”

“Wh-  _ eleven _ ?  _ Who _ are  _ you _ talking about?”

“Who did  _ you think I  _ was talking about?”

Her face contorted with reluctance. “?...Aaasgo-”

“-NO! OH MY GOD, UNDYNE, NO!  _ FUCK _ , NO! OH, GROSS! WHAT THE HELL, WHY WAS THAT WHERE YOUR MIND WENT?”

You scared some birds with that one. Some people, too.

“I don’t know! Everyone knows him, he’s not Mettaton, and I think _ literally anyone _ would be uncomfortable if you’d told them that! Not least of all because he kinda thinks of himself as a kind of father-slash-weird uncle figure to you!”

“Well… yes and no, but he  _ is _ that to you, which makes it  _ so _ weird that you even mentioned it…!?”

“Okay, okay, let’s just… we never had this part of this conversation, okay?  _ Promise me? _ ” she asked, yellow, one-eyed stare boring into your soul.

“What conversation.”

“That’s what I needed to hear.”

Neither of you said a word for a very long while. The early risers were starting to leave the park as the mid-morning crowd slowly took over. The sun peeked out from behind a tree and soon you were squinting just to see.

“Wanna walk for a bit?” she offered.

You fell into step beside her.

“I think maybe,” she said, delicately scratching her nose, “you’d better just tell me who it is.”

“It’s Sans.”

“Hmm.”

“Well?”

“He sure… does fit that description, I guess.”

The path turned and sheltered you both with a tunnel of nearly bare trees.

“... _ Really _ , though?  _ Sans? _ ”

“Uh,  _ ‘scuse you _ , what’s wrong with him?”

“I mean, I’m  _ sure _ we don’t have time to get into all that, but… your personal taste aside, you already said it. Eleven years is a lot.”

“Well, you seemed to think it was  _ hilarious _ when it was Mettaton, and that’s like… what, nine? Nine years?”

“Wh- that’s different because… it just is, and- how do you just know everyone’s ages off the top of your head? How old am I?”

“You're…. thirty two? Which makes Alphys thirty, which makes Papyrus and Mettaton both twenty-five, which makes Sans twenty-eight, which makes Asgore and Mom… still both old. Very old.  _ Old as balls.  _ Am I right?”

“Uhhh… you got me and Al right, I have no idea about the rest, I just wanted to see if you’d try. Jesus.”

“Well, the ‘old as balls’ was really more of an estimate.”

She hip-checked you and you stumbled off the path.

“I don't know how old balls are.”

“Stahp.”

She hooked her thumbs in the pocket of her sweatshirt.

“I don’t know, Frisk. What do you want me to say?”

“Whatever- whatever you're thinking. Honestly. Alphys kinda… wouldn't, I think she was afraid of hurting my feelings, and M.K…. is a little too close to the situation… But I trust you to tell me what I need to hear.”

“What you need to hear or what you wanna hear?”

“Well, it would be nice if it was a little bit of both, but I'm… I'm not stupid. I wouldn't ask you to lie to me.”

“You're a good kid,” she sighed, draping her arm over your shoulder and pulling you close for a gentle (for her), affectionate noogie.

“So what should I do?”

“Not much you  _ can _ do. He's not going to date you, or at least he’d  _ better _ not. Uh… just checking, but he hasn’t…  _ done _ or  _ said _ anything to make you think…?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, I have crush brain, so pretty much everything he ever says is subject to overanalysis, but nothing concrete, unfortunately.”

“No, hey. That's good. It means he’s not a piece of shit who'd try to take advantage of your youth and inexperience. You want that in someone you're interested in. I mean, it's like, a bare minimum, basic decency pass/fail kind of thing, but at least he passes! That actually kinda… makes  _ me _ feel a little better...”

“Makes one of us,” you whined.

“...On the other hand, it kinda makes me want to kick his ASS for making your life more DIFFICULT just by EXISTING!”

“I love you, too, Undyne.”

Another sigh, and it made you wonder if Undyne’s hair would ever turn gray, or fall out, or whatever the monster equivalent of that would be. If so, you imagined it would be in no small part due to you. Sometimes, you thought she worried about you more than your own mother did. Then again, she knew a few things about you that your mother didn't, and so she had more cause for worry. This was true for Alphys as well, but the effect was somewhat diluted by all the other things she fretted over.

The path forked, leading off towards the soccer and baseball fields one way, and toward the playgrounds in the other. 

In silent agreement, you both veered off towards the playgrounds. Where  _ else _ were you supposed to talk about a crush, if not on a swingset? It was the Way These Things Were Done, and you were glad Undyne seemed to understand that.

To your delight, there were no small children at the playground yet. You suspected it was both too cold and too early for them, so you could reserve a bit of hope for a few moments of relative privacy.

You plopped into the plastic seat of one of the swings and Undyne joined you in the one next to you. If she was embarrassed or felt childish, it didn't show.

“I'm guessing you didn't drag yourself out here just for that. So tell me more stuff. Get it all off your chest. I'm tough but sensitive, now. I can um... suplex your emotional burdens.”

You dragged your feet through the gravel as you reminded her of the band trip she was too sick to chaperone for, and how you had sprained your ankle. The chains squealed as you talked her through how you had joined Papyrus's monthly book club just to catch a glimpse of him in the kitchen or on your way out when he was between work shifts, or doing… whatever it was he did. And then, finally, as you dug the toe of your sneaker into the sand beneath the rocks, so you drove the nail into your own coffin by confessing your plan to tell him everything on your eighteenth birthday.

She slumped forward in the swing, her fingertips nearly dragging the ground.

“So, what, you think, you turn eighteen and this all just becomes okay? Like flipping a switch?”

You chuckled sheepishly. “I mean, yeah, kinda. I mean-  _ legally-” _

“Then you don't really get it.”

You shivered, not from the chill, but something closer to home. 

“Look, I know we treat you like an adult. We always have and that’s kinda because we’re able to. No doubt about it, you’re a cool kid! You’re also super weird but, you know, we like you and all. And I know we sometimes forget that you really are still just a kid. I mean, argue with me all you want but there were balloons at your birthday party four years ago. So, sure, you’re mature for your age, but not so much that it doesn’t make a difference, see? It’s just way different, getting older, and I’d know, because I am trying really hard not to. And I’m not even old! If I look at who I was when I was seventeen, though, I’m like, ‘Damn. That’s a ripped teenager with a terrible haircut. But also I hope she listens to somebody soon, because there’s a whole lot she doesn’t know yet, and that makes her vulnerable, and I wanna protect her.’ And if Sans is anywhere close to that, then a half a year isn’t going to make a difference to him, because a half a year can only teach even a  _ really cool _ seventeen-year-old so much.”

She panted, a bit. You felt like you understood, maybe, if only for the sake of her not having to strain herself with further explanation.

He saw you as a kid, most likely, and to her mind, there was very little you could do to change that. Not even the legal sanction awaiting you in a few short months, which you had been banking on.

“All right,” you sighed, wiggling your fingers against the cold after having them plastered over the chains on the swingset, “you’ve um, given me a lot to think about.”

“Course I did! Who else is gonna knock some sense into you, if not me?”

“I’m freezing, can we go someplace warm now?”

She booed you, but walked back out to her car with you, anyway, now relieved to be able to switch to more comfortable subjects.

But as you strapped in and warmed your hands by the vents that were making pathetic attempts to blow hot air on you, you had just one last question.

“So, you  _ really  _ don’t think, like… when I’m older…?” you asked. “Like,  _ actually _ older, down the line, not just, ‘hey, I’m at the age of majority now, let’s do this’...”

She snorted. “What, you think this is still going to be a problem for you? Nah, I know two years seems like a long time, and it is. For some things. But you’ll go off and, I don’t know, fall for the girl with the cute butt in your yoga class or something. Knowing you, you’ll exchange glances with someone in the library and concoct an elaborate fantasy about how you’re meant to be together and you’re gonna get married and gross stuff like that. And then one day, you’ll look back and… trust me, you’ll be  _ glad _ you never acted on this.”

You shrugged, but she didn’t see as she was busy backing out of the parking space. It was certainly something to consider, but maybe you would, and maybe you wouldn’t.

  
You loved Undyne, and you appreciated her advice, and you’d taken everything she had said to heart. But, you also knew this: there was really only one way to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've been kind of stewing on this conversation for a while. I think, out of all the stuff I've written, this has been the thing I've written with the purest intent behind it, and I hope that shows. This is exactly the kind of conversation I wish I'd had, in, oh, I dunno, my first year of college or so. Although, I suspect that like Frisk, I'd have been like, "Yes, you're probably right. And I love that you're looking out for me. If you'll excuse me however, I'm going to go ahead and do exactly what I wanna do, anyway."
> 
> Anyway, [here's some more words related to this topic](https://captainawkward.com/2015/09/16/746-breaking-up-much-older-boyfriend-edition/), and although they aren't my own, I stand by them, anyway (thanks, Captain Awkward). Because as much as I'm a sucker for age gaps in relationships and I'm super weak for gross middle-aged dudes, uh, that shit isn't good to get into when you're still just a cool teen. And again, I personally wish I'd known that, then.


End file.
